Andrea Widburg passes along an interesting Instagram video by a black conservative from Texas.
[The] truth.. about the Black Lives Matter movement is perfectly highlighted in a video that Damani Felder, a black conservative in Texas, posted to Instagram on Monday. Felder was dining with friends at an outdoor venue next to an open plaza in Dallas, Texas. As he repeatedly pans the dining area with his camera, you can see that the diners are a mix of races and ages.
The film begins immediately after a group of about 20 or 25 Black Lives Matter protesters arrayed themselves in an ankle-deep fountain running the length of the dining area. The protesters are, by a pretty clear margin, young, white, and female. In other words, they perfectly match the demographics in American colleges, which are also mostly young, white, and female.
These are the good little girls who have always worked hard in school, diligently imbibing everything their hard-left Democrat teachers and professors have taught them. These â€œeducatorsâ€ have played on their sense of self-worth, guilt, and credulity to turn themselves into the foot soldiers of anarchy.
Felder knows whatâ€™s going on with these young people:
The majority-white people in the crowd that want to feel good about themselves. Look at this. They want to feel good about themselves, so theyâ€™re here ruining an otherwise peaceful evening with their B.S.
Look at this. Majority-white people, out here acting the fool because they want to feel like they are important.
Look at this. Look at the racial make-up of this. Think about what the purpose of this would be. Remember that Opal Tometi and Patrisse Cullors are the founders of this organization, and they are admitting on camera that they are trained Marxists. All they care about is anarchy and social unrest.
Look at this. Look at this. Again, majority-white crowd because they want to feel that they belong to something.
Whatâ€™s unique about the video, in addition to Felderâ€™s astute insights, is that we can watch how the protesters transform in real-time from being loud and vulgar to being so violent that the police bring tear gas and pepper spray to stop them (but not before the protesters throw things, breaking windows and possibly doing other damage). The bewildered diners, who had been hoping these human mosquitoes would spontaneously depart, end up scattering, their lovely evening completely spoiled.
Robert Jenkins Onderdonk, Fall of the Alamo, 1903, Texas State Archives.
March 6, 1836: Following a thirteen-day siege, more than 2000 Mexican troops launched a pre-dawn attack from all four sides on the fortress defended by 180 men. The Mexicans were repulsed twice, but a third assault gained the north wall and broke through the west wall. After fierce fighting, the defenders were killed to a man. The casualties included Colonel William Barret Travis, James Bowie, and former Congressman from Tennessee David Crockett.
The West Freeway Church of Christ videos and streams its services. The camera caught the moment when a hooded man stood up, pulled a shotgun and opened fire this morning.
Watch the man in black stand up at the top of the frame.
[T]his is a textbook version of a good guy with a gun taking down a bad guy with a shotgun. Even though weâ€™ve been told by all the smartest people that the whole good guy thing is a myth.
Two people have reportedly been killed, including the shooter, and one person is in critical condition. But had the church not had armed individuals in the congregation and ready to respond, this could have been a far worse situation than it already was.
For that reason â€” because an armed individual used a firearm to stop a threat â€” look for this story to get far less intense or ongoing media attention than it otherwise would have.
The Tarrant county sheriff at press conference noted:
â€œToday evil walked boldly among us, let me remind you, good people raised up and stopped it before it got worse.â€
According to the Eagle Pass News Leader, the images have not been confirmed to be in the Rio Grande, but many believe it to be in Laredo.
Many questions have been buzzing around Facebook about where the tiger came from and many of them have named the tiger “El Tigre Del Sur” or the tiger from the south.
A year ago today, the Washington Post reported that Federal agents peered into a duffel bag on the Mexico border. They found a tiger cub. So, the idea that a tiger was hanging out on the banks of the Rio Grande is not that far-fetched.
Sterry Butcher has a very nice piece in Texas Monthly on the romance of the railroad in West Texas.
It began this summer, when we slept with our windows open. The first time it happened, I awoke in the middle of the night not knowing what Iâ€™d heard. It sounded like loony laughter from a dozen different souls, some of them clapping weird noisemakers, before their demented hilarity abruptly ceased. Moonlight streamed into the room. The Catahoula at the foot of the bed listened too, eyes shining and ears pricked. The trainâ€™s horn blew from the tracks a mile away, a winsome four-blast call: â€œIâ€™m here; Iâ€™m here; here, Iâ€™m here.â€ Immediately the party erupted again, but now, with my wits about me, I recognized the troublemakers. Coyotes. Coyotes howling and yipping in answer to the train.
Why these coyotes accompany the trainâ€™s wail, I do not know, but theyâ€™ve continued in the months since, always in the gloaming or cloaked by night, sometimes quite close to the house, which sets the Catahoula to lift a lip and rumble meaningfully. A strange, long string of interspecies communication has thus evolved: the train warning people of its approach, the coyotes calling to the train, the dog cautioning the coyotes that home, this place, is off limits, while I lay a comforting hand on the dogâ€™s paw in the dark.
John Gregory Bourke (1846-1896) enlisted in the Fifteenth Pennsylvania Volunteer Cavalry at the age of 16, and was awarded a Medal of Honor for “gallantry in action” at the Battle of Stones River, Tennessee, in December 1862. He also fought at Chickamauga under George H. Thomas.
After the war, through Thomas, he received an appointment to West Point where he graduated in 1869, and was then assigned as a second lieutenant in the Third U.S. Cavalry. He served with his regiment at Fort Craig, New Mexico Territory, from September 29, 1869 to February 19, 1870.
Bourke was an enthusiastic student of Indian ethnology, on which subject he published a number of studies, and a copious diarist.
He compiled, from his diaries, a military memoir, On the Border with Crook, published in 1892, which is one of the key primary sources on the Indian Wars.
His quarters in New Mexico were simple and rough, he tells us, but they were decorated with a set of three hundred year old Spanish armor.
My assignment was to one of the rooms in the adobe house, an apartment some fourteen by nine feet in area, by seven and a half or eight in height. There was not enough furniture to occasion any anxiety in case of fire: nothing but a single cot, one rocking-chair â€” visitors, when they came, generally sat on the side of the cot â€” a trunk, a shelf of books, a small pine washstand, over which hung a mirror of greenish hue, sold to me by the post trader with the assurance that was French plate. I found afterward that the trader could not always be relied upon, but Iâ€™ll speak of him at another time. There were two window curtains, both of chintz; one concealed the dust and fly specks on the only window, and the other covered the row of pegs upon which hung sabre, forage cap, and uniform.
In that part of Arizona fires were needed only at intervals, and, as a consequence, the fireplaces were of insignificant dimensions, although they were placed, in the American fashion, on the side of the rooms, and not, as among the Mexicans, in the corners. There was one important article of furniture connected with fireplace and which I must make mentionâ€”the long iron poker with which, on occasion I was want to stir up the embers, and also to stir up the Mexican boy Esperidion, to whom, in the wilder freaks of my imagination, I was in the habit of alluding as my â€œvalet.â€
The quartermaster had recently received permission to expand â€œa reasonable amountâ€ of paint upon the officersâ€™ quarters, provided the same could be done by labor of the troops. â€¦
It goes without saying that the work was never any too well done, and in the present case there seemed to be more paint scattered about my room than would have given it another coat. But the floor was of rammed earth and not to be spoiled, and the general effect was certainly in the line of improvement. Colonel Dubois, our commanding officer, at least thought so, and warmly congratulated me on the smug look of everything and added a very acceptable present of a pictureâ€”one of Prangâ€™s framed chromos, a view of the Hudson at the mouth of the Esopus creek â€“ which gave a luxurious finish to the whole business. Later on, after I had added an Apache bow and quiver, with its complement of arrows, one or two of the bright, cheery Navajo rugs, a row of bottles filled with select specimens of tarantulas, spiders, scorpions, rattlesnakes and others of the fauna of the country, and hung upon the walls a suit of armor which had belonged to some Spanish foot-soldier of the sixteenth century, there was a sybaritic suggestiveness which made all that has been related of the splendors of Solomon and Sardanapalus seem commonplace.
Of that suit of armor I should like to say a word: it was found by surgeon Steyer, of the army, enclosing the bones of a man, in the arid country between the waters of the Rio Grande and the Pecos, in the extreme southwest corner of the State of Texas, more than 20 years ago. Various conjectures were advanced and all sorts of theories advocated as to its exact age, some people thinking that it belonged originally to Coronadoâ€™s expedition, which entered New Mexico in 1541. My personal belief is that belong to the expedition of Don Antonio Espayo or that of Don Juan de OÃ±ate, both of them came to New Mexico about the same date â€”1581-1592â€”and travelled down the Concho to its confluence with the Rio Grande, which would have been just on the line where the skeleton in armor was discovered. There is no authentic report to show that Coronado swung so far to the south; his line of operation took in the country farther to the north and east, and there are the best of reasons for believing that he was the first white man to utter the fertile valley of the Platte, not far from Plum Creek, Nebraska.
But, be that as it may, the suit of armor â€” breast and back plates, gorget, and helmet â€” nicely painted and varnished, and with every tiny brass button duly cleaned and polished with acid and ashes, added not a little to the looks of the den which without them wouldâ€™ve been much more dismal.
For such of my readers may not be up on these matters, I may say that iron armor was abandoned very soon after the Conquest, as the Spaniards found heat of these dry regions too great to admit of their wearing anything so heavy; and they also found that like cotton batting â€œescaupilesâ€ of the Aztec served every purposes as a protection against the arrows of the naked savages by whom they were now surrounded.
Parts at least of Bourke’s Spanish armor have survived, and I found some discussion on the Internet in a discussion thread at Above Top Secret:
The few records of the armor that exist came from U.S. cavalry officer and anthropologist Capt. John Gregory Bourke, who was given the gorget, helmet, and a breast- and backplate in 1870, from an army doctor who claimed to have found them â€œenclosing the bones of a man in the arid country between the waters of the Rio Grande and the Pecos.â€
Bourke took the armor with him from post to post throughout the West during his career, losing the breast and backplates to thieves in Arizona along the way.
But before his death in 1896, Bourke gave the helmet and gorget to a judgeâ€™s wife in Nebraska, and by the early 20th century, it was in the possession of an Omaha attorney, in whose family it remained until it was donated to a museum in 1961, and then to the state historical society.
The assumption is the armor is Spanish, that would be the most likely scenario as it dates to the appropriate period.
Historical records describe the equipment used by Spanish soldiers at that time, but the team found that it included little armor, the Spanish instead having used mostly padded leather or shirts of chain mail.
â€œIt just is not very much like armor known to have been used by colonial Spanish forces,â€ Bleed said of Bourkeâ€™s armor of iron scales.
â€œThe Spanish apparently had some (chain) mail, but the idea of taking a fabric and attaching little fish scales to it, this is not something they did.â€
It’s too bad the breast plate and back were lost as they would shed more light on where this came from.
Buzzfeed reports that, just because Tommie Woodward ignored warnings and jumped into the bayou at 2 A.M., winding up killed by an alligator, his grieving family feels he should not have been made into a Darwin Awards national joke.
On the night of July 2, 2015, Tommie Woodward was doing what Tommie did on Thursday nights â€” shooting pool, playing shuffleboard, drinking beer, having a good time at Burkartâ€™s Marina, a beer and burger joint in Orange, Texas. Sometime around 2 a.m. he decided to go for a swim in the murky waters of Adams Bayou.
Michelle Wright, the bartender on duty, became concerned upon hearing Tommieâ€™s plans. A few weeks earlier, the barâ€™s owner, Allen Burkart, spotted an exceptionally large alligator patrolling the bayou. He immediately erected a â€œNo Swimmingâ€ sign, which was disregarded. The people of Orange frequently swam with the reptiles, and even nicknamed two of them Cheeto and Marshmallow. Wright pleaded with Tommie, but he was stubborn, never backed down from anyone or anything. He was going swimming. Wright returned to her bartending duties.
Tommie removed his shirt and billfold and, joined by his companion Victoria LeBlanc, tiptoed toward the water. At this point LeBlanc saw a big gator â€” maybe the same animal Burkart had encountered â€” emerge from beneath the dock. She alerted Tommie to its presence, who shouted back, â€œFuck that gator!â€ and plunged into the bayou.
Tommie was near a small island across the swamp when the gator got his arm. When LeBlanc jumped into the water to save him, he yelled for her to return to land. She obliged, then frantically ran inside for help. After dialing 911, Wright grabbed a flashlight, killed the lights to reduce the glare, and scanned the water for him. After five minutes or so â€” sheâ€™s unsure â€” Wright found him facedown near the pier. The gator quickly pulled Tommie under again. He resurfaced about 20 yards downstream, before disappearing into the darkness.
Two hours later Tommieâ€™s body was found with the left arm missing from the elbow down. His cause of death was drowning.
Tommie Woodward was the first person to die from an alligator attack in Texas since 1836. Shortly after the start of the Runaway Scrape, the mass evacuation of Texans fleeing Santa Annaâ€™s army during the Texas Revolution, an alligator killed a man identified as Mr. King in a bayou near the present-day Harris County border. Mr. King was leading his horses across water when an alligator thumped him with its tail and dragged him under. Luckily for Mr. King â€” and his friends and family â€” his death occurred before the advent of television and social media.
News of Tommie Woodwardâ€™s death went viral with articles on, among other places, BuzzFeed, the Daily Mail, Fox News, and Gawker; the Associated Press picked up the story; it led the local TV news, of course. The local Beaumont Enterprise published a cautionary op-ed. The comment sections were busy and typically unsympathetic. The particulars â€” an animal attack, his famous last words, according to the police report â€” provided irresistible content.
Some outlets used an image from Tommieâ€™s Facebook page of him chugging a Miller High Life while wearing a T-shirt that reads â€œClassy Motherfuckerâ€; a news anchor for KFDM, the CBS affiliate in nearby Beaumont, breathlessly noted â€œthe hundreds and thousands of pageviews and hundreds of commentsâ€ that the story generated on its website. Another circulated photo portrayed Tommie as the epitome of dudedom: grungy reddish-blonde chin strap beard, middle finger up, wearing a goofy cowboy hat, wraparound Guy Fieri shades, and a â€œThis Guy Needs a Beerâ€ shirt. On Facebook, strangers littered Tommie’s wall with comments like â€œlol rip dumbassâ€ and â€œWhat. A. Dumb. Fuck.â€ A controversial hunt for the killer gator ensued, which only compounded the attention.
Tommieâ€™s friends and family refuse to allow his final actions define the 28 years that preceded it. He loved Van Halen, Marilyn Monroe, and Ken Griffey Jr. He was good with his hands. He enjoyed assembling computers, building sandcastles with his nephew, fishing, swimming, camping, and grilling. He had an adoring big sister, a mom, a best friend, and an identical twin brother, Brian, all left to wrestle not just with grief over a freak tragedy, but also the aftermath of public humiliation. â€œI was severely pissed off at a lot of people that Iâ€™ve never met before,â€ his sister, Tabatha, says. â€œI was mad at everybody.â€